


Hard Boiled

by schweet_heart



Series: Merlin Fic [67]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Arthur!whump, Detective Arthur, Detective Noir, Explosives, Fluff and Crack, Gen, Kidnapping, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mob Boss Uther Pendragon, Mutual Pining, Parody, Pining, Private Investigators, Sidekick Merlin, Unresolved Sexual Tension, remix eligible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-15 21:57:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11814999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweet_heart/pseuds/schweet_heart
Summary: Arthur wakes to find himself tied to a chair, at the mercy of villainous henchmen and staring into the face of an explosive device primed to take out half a city block. Must be Tuesday.Written for Pornalot 2017 Bonus Challenge #3 (Crime and Punishment).





	Hard Boiled

 

When asked, Arthur likes to tell people that being a Private Investigator is a highly dangerous job.  
  
“Not everyone takes kindly to having a private eye snooping through their business,” he tells them, nodding his head and tapping the side of his nose knowingly. His father used to do that; Arthur thinks it makes him look distinguished, and not, as Merlin likes to claim, like a complete prat. Merlin couldn’t tell distinguished from a dirty dish-towel, even if Arthur smacked him around the face with it. “Sometimes things can get a little ugly.”  
  
It’s usually at this point that Merlin, Arthur’s hapless secretary and sometime sidekick (despite Arthur’s reluctance to admit that he could possibly need assistance, ever), makes a rude noise and butts in.  
  
“What he means to say is, he’s been arrested three times for breaking and entering, twice for trespassing on private property, and half a dozen times for invasion of privacy,” he says, sounding long-suffering. “Arthur isn’t what you’d call a people person.”  
  
Arthur is perfectly charming. Unfortunately, Merlin is a clod. It is for this reason that nearly all of these encounters end with Arthur dragging his assistant away by one ear, ignoring Merlin’s repeated cries of “Ow, Arthur, you’re _hurting_!” and snagging another drink from a passing waiter in which to drown his sorrows. It’s a wonder they ever manage to bring in any new business at all, but somehow, between Arthur's good looks and strategic intelligence and Merlin’s bumbling idiot routine, they manage to scrape by.  
  
All of Merlin's antics aside, however, investigating is, in fact, a dangerous profession. So far, Arthur has been lucky: all of his major limbs are more or less intact, and he’s missing neither his eyes, his nose, nor any of his digits. He has, however, sufficient experience with the nausea that accompanies a concussion to know two things: first, that someone has fairly recently hit him over the head with a blunt object – which, _ow_ – and second, that he has probably been kidnapped.  
  
Sure enough, when Arthur musters up the willpower to squint through his lashes, it’s to find that he is in a damp, probably abandoned basement, tied to a chair, with a gag in his mouth. There is also what looks like a bomb on the table across from him with a suitcase full of cash beside it.  
  
“Oh, bloody hell,” Arthur groans, letting his head drop back with a thud that makes the world spin around him. “Not again.”

 

  
  
At a guesstimate, which is unfortunately all that he has at the moment, Arthur has been conscious for around half an hour when the villain du jour deigns to come and check whether or not his prisoner is awake. During that time, Arthur has managed to remove the gag, finagle a pocket knife out of his jeans — he’d learned that lesson around kidnapping #3: always carry something sharp — and cut through most of the rope holding him to the chair, as well as take stock of his predicament. It’s definitely a basement — warehouse building would be his guess; the bomb is not currently active, although it still looks terribly dangerous; and one of his shoulders is just this side of dislocated. So it’s pretty much a good news/bad news situation.  
  
Then he catches sight of the man who kidnapped him, and revises that estimate rather more heavily in the direction of “bad news.”  
  
“Mr. Pendragon,” Cedric Bonchamps says. He isn’t literally twirling his moustache, but the intent is obviously there. “We meet again.”  
  
Arthur sighs. Just once, he would appreciate a better class of villain. Preferably someone who hadn’t watched too many James Bond films as a child.  
  
“Hello, Cedric.”  
  
Cedric sneers at him. At least, he thinks it’s supposed to be a sneer. “Not so high and mighty now, are you?” he asks, stepping closer to Arthur. “You see that little bomb on the table over there? Very soon it’s going to be activated. And when that happens…” He makes a choking sound and runs a finger across his throat. Arthur raises his eyebrows.  
  
“One of Boris’s little toys, is it?” he asks, mildly impressed. “I didn’t realise you were so committed to killing me, Cedric. My congratulations on finally growing some balls.”

A frown of confusion crosses Cedric’s thin face. “What do you mean?”  
  
Arthur suppresses his impatience with difficulty. “The bomb. If it explodes right after you arm it, as your gesture implies, then you’re going to go up in smoke along with me and probably half the warehouse district. Did that part not occur to you?”  
  
“Of— of course it did,” Cedric says. He licks his lips, looking uncommonly like a ferret, and pulls a cellphone out of his pocket. “I just— one second.”  
  
He turns away, hunching his shoulders as if doing so will keep Arthur from overhearing his conversation, and dials a number. “Yeah, Boris?” he says. “No, no, everything’s fine. It’s just. You did set a timer on the bomb, right? No, because— oh. The little button with the— yeah. No, yeah, I’ve got it. Right. No, I was just checking. All right then. Give my love to the missus.”  
  
He hangs up and turns back to Arthur. “It has a remote detonator,” he says, as if none of the events of the last few minutes ever occurred. “I set it off when I’m out of the building, and _then_ …” He repeats his earlier gesture. “So there, Agent Smarty-Pants.”  
  
Arthur considers reminding him that actually, he’s a Private Investigator, not a member of MI5, but he doesn’t want to spoil Cedric’s fun, and anyway, he’s getting bored with this little game now. “That’s great, Ced,” he says, deliberately nonchalant. “There’s just one problem.”  
  
Cedric’s face falls. “What? No, there isn’t. What problem?”  
  
“You have to be able to get out of the building first.”

 

  
  
The ensuing altercation is unpleasant, but over swiftly. Neither Cedric nor his flunkies have ever been good in a fight, and Arthur has been trained in various types of martial arts since he was in preschool. Sometimes it pays to have a father who is a big name in organised crime.  
  
Not often. But sometimes.  
  
Having subdued Cedric and disarmed the bomb, Arthur filches Cedric’s cellphone from his pocket and summons the police, then calls for an ambulance, just to be on the safe side. Cedric is still out cold, and would probably benefit from some medical attention. Oh yes, and there’s that concussion to think about.  
  
He gives the authorities a ten minute head start before he calls Merlin.  
  
“Arthur, if that’s you you’d better be all right, you prat,” Merlin says, not bothering with a hello.  
  
“Perfectly fine, thank you,” Arthur says, resting the back of his head against the wall. Somehow, it hurts less now that he’s talking to Merlin. “How far would you say you are from the warehouse district?”  
  
There’s a pause. “I can be there in fifteen minutes,” Merlin says, sounding resigned. “Who was it this time?”  
  
“Our old friend Cedric. Must’ve been let out for good behaviour.” He can hear the sounds of Merlin getting ready to leave on the other end of the line, and pictures him in his mangy old flat, pressing the phone against his ear as he tries to simultaneously put on his jacket, open the door, and tie up his shoes all at the same time. Predictably, there is a yelp, and the phone clatters to the floor. Arthur waits patiently for Merlin to retrieve it.  
  
“I’m fine,” Merlin says, sounding a little breathless. “The umbrella stand copped it, but I don’t think I broke anything.”  
  
“I always hated that thing anyway,” Arthur says. He hears a door slam, then Merlin’s footsteps as he races down the stairs. In the distance, he can hear sirens. “I’ll see you in fifteen minutes, yeah?”  
  
“Yeah,” Merlin agrees. “And, Arthur?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Don’t do anything stupid before I get there.”  
  
Arthur grins into the phone. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”'

 

 

Thanks to his stroke of foresight, Arthur’s injuries have already been treated by the time Merlin gets there. He’s learned the hard way that Merlin likes to have a complete diagnosis waiting for him when he arrives, and will refuse to believe Arthur’s all right unless he has been seen by an EMT. Merlin doesn’t actually have a problem with the sight of blood, per se, but he does have a problem with the sight of blood on Arthur – it has a tendency to make him start yelling and flailing his arms about, and do stupid things like put his foot down and ban Arthur from investigating for a month.  
  
It should probably bother Arthur a lot more than it does.  
  
Having been ushered through the police cordon as a matter of course, Merlin sits down next to Arthur and hands him a drink of water. Arthur accepts it gratefully.  
  
“So, what’s the verdict?” Merlin asks, looking Arthur over. Arthur takes a long, strategic swallow and shrugs his undamaged shoulder, watching as the miscreants are loaded into the back of the police van.  
  
“Bruised ribs, concussion, a split lip and various scrapes and bruises,” he says, matter-of-fact. “Nothing that a few stitches and some time won’t heal.”  
  
Merlin lets out a breath.  
  
“Christ, Arthur,” he says. “Are you sure you’re— ?”  
  
“I’m fine,” Arthur interrupts hurriedly, determined to forestall any suggestion to the contrary. “Stop fussing.”  
  
“I’m not _fussing_ , I just— ” Merlin stops, and shakes his head. “Never mind.” His lips quirk in something approximating a smile and he tilts his head in Arthur’s direction. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this, boss.”  
  
Arthur relaxes. “You said it, doll-face.”  
  
“Hey!” Merlin objects. “I thought we agreed that you were going to stop calling me that!”  
  
“We agreed to no such thing.”  
  
“Yes, we did,” Merlin insists. “After the train robbery incident I asked you _very nicely_ and you said— ”  
  
“Lies,” Arthur says, and he’s outright grinning now. Merlin’s face is flushed and there’s a set to his mouth, but at least he’s stopped talking about how close Arthur had come to mortal danger — again — and Arthur’s secret is still safe. “Absolute rubbish. I never said any such thing. I’d remember it.”  
  
Finally, Merlin catches on that Arthur’s teasing. “You’re such a clotpole,” he says, without heat.  
  
“Whatever you say, darling.”  
  
Merlin makes a strangled sound, which means Arthur’s won this round. He smirks contentedly, leaning back against the steps of the ambulance and putting a hand to his aching side. He’s pretty sure he’s still high on whatever they gave him earlier, or maybe it’s the adrenaline in his system that has him buzzing. Or maybe it’s just Merlin, sitting so close to him and _caring_ , and Arthur is an awful person but he can’t seem to help it; he’d do anything to keep Merlin in his life. Including lie to him about exactly why he keeps getting himself into these stupid scrapes in the first place.  
  
Sometimes it really _doesn’t_ pay to have a mob boss for a father.

“Ribs hurting?” Merlin asks quietly. His eyes are on Arthur still, watching every movement critically, and Arthur is once again hit by a surge of uncontrollable affection.  
  
“Well, _obviously_ ,” he drawls, to cover the feeling. “That’s what happens when some bully kicks you in the chest, _Mer_ lin, I really don’t know why you’re so surprised.”  
  
Merlin doesn’t respond to the sarcastic tone. Instead, he reaches out and touches Arthur’s split lip, the rising black eye, and then splays his hand over Arthur’s where it rests on his chest. Arthur holds his breath, even though it makes his ribs ache, and tries not to close his eyes. God, if only Merlin would stop doing things like that then maybe he’d be able to shake this stupid infatuation already.  
  
“I know you hate hearing this,” Merlin says, his voice low. “But at some point one of them is going to get lucky and seriously hurt you. Or worse. What if it had been Val behind that bomb? What if you couldn’t get away in time?” His voice wobbles, and Arthur feels his heart constrict.  
  
“Merlin, don’t.”  
  
“I know you like to think you’re invincible, but— ”  
  
“I know what I’m doing, all right?” Arthur interrupts. He shakes off Merlin’s hand, ignoring the part of him that’s sad to feel it go, and moves back a little, out of range. “Just…can’t you just trust me on that?”  
  
“I’m trying,” Merlin says. He pauses as one of the medics comes back to fetch something from the ambulance, muttering something about crazy ferrets and rabies. When he’s gone, Merlin shakes his head. “I just hate seeing you get hurt so much, that’s all,” he says. “At least tell me it’s worth it. Whatever it is you can’t talk to me about.”  
  
Arthur looks at him and swallows hard. He’s always teased Merlin that he’s neither the brawn nor the brains of their little operation, but the truth is that Merlin’s smart. Smarter than Arthur sometimes gives him credit for.  
  
“It’s worth it,” he says, clearing his throat. He meets Merlin’s eyes and tries to will the other man to understand. “I promise.”  
  
Merlin holds his gaze for a moment longer, then nods, shoulders slumping.  
  
“Then I suppose I trust you.” His smile is sadder than it ought to be, and Arthur is definitely a terrible person for making him look like that, especially when all he really wants to do is snog him senseless. “But you will be careful, won’t you?”  
  
“You know me,” Arthur says, trying for brightness. “Careful is my middle name.”  
  
Merlin rolls his eyes, but he leans his head on Arthur’s good shoulder anyway. “Your middle name is Hubert,” he says. “Though I’m pretty sure it ought to have been Trouble.”  
  
Now there’s a set-up if ever Arthur heard one, but instead of answering he just turns his face into the softness of Merlin’s hair. Eventually, when he’s cleaned up his father’s mess, he will sit Merlin down and tell him everything. Maybe over a nice dinner at that Italian restaurant down the street – the only one on the block Uther Pendragon has never been able to get his claws into. Merlin will probably throw the salt shaker at him and call him several different variations of stupid and then storm out of the restaurant in a huff, leaving Arthur to pay for their meal while trying to translate ‘dollophead’ into broken Italian. But he’ll come around. Probably.  
  
In the meantime, Arthur will endure his bi-monthly kidnappings and semi-annual murder threats with good grace, because he also gets moments like this one: when the drugs are good, the bad guys vanquished, and Merlin is sitting beside him with his coat on inside out, making bad jokes at Arthur’s expense.  
  
It’s probably supposed to be some kind of karmic punishment for all of his father’s past mistakes, but all things considered, it’s not a very good one.


End file.
